


The Cyclone

by melfics (orphan_account)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 14:50:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7109926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/melfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Remember when I made you ride The Cyclone at Coney Island?"<br/>"Yeah, and I threw up?"<br/>"This isn't payback, is it?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cyclone

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm SO CLEVER AT COMING UP WITH TITLES.

“Steve. Steve. Wake up, Steve!”

  
“What? What?”

  
Something inside of him- his heart, maybe, no, not his heart, probably just its beat because he's very, very suddenly conscious- picks up as he’s jostled awake by a grinning Bucky. A wide-eyed Bucky. A too-ecstatic Bucky too early in the morning. Bucky.

“Come on. Get up, champ! It’s nearly noon!”

“Then it’s too early,” Steve grunts, letting his head fall back against his pillow. His eyes are open, though, and carefully regarding Bucky’s.

“Well,” Bucky settles, his hands finding his hips and head tilting exaggeratedly, “it is your birthday. I suppose I could let you sleep, if that’s what you want. If that’s what you really want. I suppose I could take ol’ Linda to Coney Island instead. Or Donna. Yes, Donna’s rather a doll. I would rather go with you, Steve, on your birthday, I really would. But if it’s what you want-”

Steve scrambles to his hands and knees, effectively tying the sheets around his eager and, well, gangly limbs, and takes Bucky by his suspenders. Bucky laughs at his reaction, smile all confident and toothy.

“No girls?”

“No girls,” Bucky chuckles, prying Steve’s bony fingers from himself.

“No dates?”

“No, no dates. It’s your birthday, and you’re my best pal. I owe you a break from fourth-wheeling all of our double dates, at least.”

“I’ll have you know,” Steve argues, disentangling himself from the bed, “that girls don’t not like me. They happen to be rather afraid of me, which is why they settle for you, you big softy.”

“Oh, because you’re so big and tough,” Bucky rolls his eyes.

Steve, riled up, climbs out of bed and, seeing that Bucky’s eyes are no longer on him, attempts to catch him off guard by punching him, hard, in the shoulder. To his dismay, Bucky’s initial reaction is to raise his eyebrows at him in confusion, before catching on and dropping to the ground in mock pain.

“Oh, ow! Ouch, Steve! I think you’ve dislocated my shoulder!”

“Still nothing, huh?”

“No, oh, you really got me. You did, Steve, a bruise is already starting to form,” Bucky says earnestly, prodding at his left shoulder with his fingertips. “Ooh, ouch!”

“I hit your right shoulder, man.”

“Are you sure?” Bucky contemplates, pausing prodding to furrow his eyebrows.

Steve sighs heavily and heads for the kitchen. “You’d think that after so many birthday wishes for a bit of muscle-”

“Hey, whatcha need muscle for, man?” Bucky asks incredulously, getting up and turning on his heels to follow him.

“Bucky.” Steve stops and stares at him, eyes exhausted, tired of arguing this. This point. This-

“Muscle is, it’s- it’s nothing, man. You’re just as much of a catch as you would be a bit bulkier, okay?”

“Man, I get it,” Steve shrugs. “Guys like me were made to sit in a chair and punch numbers, I know. Not serve our country, not be- whatever. Guys like me, Bucky, were made to take guys like yours’ places- like women- while you lay down your lives. To come home to an empty apartment after a long day’s work of sitting and eat canned rice and beans for dinner.” He takes a can of black beans from the open cupboard and slams it on the counter for effect. “Where's the goddamned can opener, huh?”

“Not empty,” Bucky says stubbornly. “To me.”

“You?”

“Yeah. You know, I mean. I’ll be there. I’ll always be there. I’m your best pal.”

“I mean,” Steve wavers, smirking slightly. “I’m yours, but who’s to say you’re mine-”

“Punk,” Bucky growls, lunging at him, and Steve swallows loudly. It's a sound he's heard a hundred, a thousand, a million times- Bucky growling- before and yet he still can't seem to be able to handle processing it properly without feeling overwhelmed, without wanting to swallow it, rather.

“Guys like you,” Bucky mutters, “were made to defy all odds. Okay? But more importantly,” he adds, “guys like you were made to make it to Coney Island on time, okay, so let’s get a move on! Come on, forget those beans, we’ll eat a proper breakfast there. Popcorn and hot dogs and cotton candy. I’m treating you like a dame today, you big birthday boy.”

Steve flushes, hides it in his knees as he bends over for his shoes.

“Pants?” Bucky offers.

“Right.”  
They fall into step, after Steve has shimmied into his slacks and tightened his belt, in the hallway. Bucky locks the apartment door with his spare key, one that Steve entrusted him with several months ago. They don’t live together, not technically. But they kind of do.

Bucky has his own cot in the corner, and had they been closer in size they would have swapped clothing but instead Bucky keeps pairs of boxers and socks and extra shirts in a dresser drawer for sleepovers. Call them a pair of girls, whatever, with the amount of sleepovers and late night talks they have- they’re best friends.

“Bucky, I don’t want you to spend more than you have on me-”

“Relax, hotshot, I’m being frugal. We’re walking, for one, instead of taking a cab. Oh, and another thing- we’re sneaking in.”

“We are not!” Steve exclaims, stopping suddenly.

“No, we’re not. Security is a bitch.”

Steve shakes his head. They’re walking down the street by now, and vendors are attempting to lure them with loud shouts.

“Hot dogs, fellas? You two rascals look starved, especially you there! Hey, boy, a little meat on those bones would do you-”

“He’s fine, he’s perfectly fine, thank you!” Bucky spits at the man, rugged and rather appalled.

Steve closes in on himself, a little. “We’re fine, man. Thanks.”

Still walking, he glances over at Bucky, who’s huffing. “Stand down, soldier.”

“Shut up.”

“He’s just doing his job.”

“And I’m just doing mine.”

“You’re not my bodyguard, Bucky.”

“I’m your friend, Steve. Friends don’t let-”

“You only make me feel smaller when you stand up for me like I’m not capable of doing it for myself, okay? I know you mean well, but I can handle myself,” he insists. “I’m not some dame.”

“You’re right,” Bucky relents, but Steve knows he’s lying. He’s never going to stop trying to save him. “You’re not.”

A silence settles between them, one that’s partially awkward and partially called for. When they get heated like this, when Bucky gets overprotective- it takes several moments for his instincts to settle.

“Are we there yet?” Steve whines pointedly, staring up at Bucky with innocent eyes.

“I swear to God,” Bucky groans, slugging Steve with a little less force than he would any of his work buddies. He won’t tell him, because he knows it, but he’s fragile. Physically. Beautifully, to Bucky.

“How much farther?”

“Shut up.”

“Will you carry me?”

“Shut the hell up.”

Within another ten minutes, Bucky’s forking over coins, lots of coins, and Steve feels bad.

“It’s your birthday,” Bucky shrugs.

They buy hot dogs, better than any that old vendor would have sold them, and Bucky chides Steve for his use of mustard instead of ketchup. They laugh and they jostle each other, just like they always have, always do, and Steve threatens to chuck Bucky over their ferris wheel cart if he doesn’t shut up about his sunburned cheeks. Bucky wins a stuffed dog- a chihuahua, of all things- tossing rings, but keeps it for himself.

“Hey, it kind of looks like you,” he laughs, nudging Steve.

“I can’t believe you,” Steve huffs, pretending to be upset. “You promised to treat me like a dame, and here you are, winning a stuffed animal and keeping it.”

“I’m just joshing you. Here, keep it. It’ll remind you of my valiant efforts. I played that game eight times, you know.”

“My hero,” Steve swoons.

Bucky laughs again and then gasps, faltering in his footsteps and stopping Steve with his hand against his chest.

“Steve,” he says in wonderment, “you have to ride The Cyclone with me. You have to!”

“I do not,” Steve contorts his face.

“You’re a big boy now, you do.”

“I-” Steve protests, but Bucky grabs- actually grabs, like, fingers entwining- his hand and yanks him, hard. He’s dragging his feet, and Bucky stops them at the back of the line.

“It’s short today, the stars are aligned, man!”

“Bucky, we’ve been here all day, and it’s nearing sundown. Besides, my small ass will probably fly right out of its seat at the first gust of wind-”

“Has it really been that long? Wow, I suppose it is eight thirty,” he interrupts, glancing at his watch. “Last ride, then.”

“Bucky!”

“Do it for me, your best pal!”

“Bucky,” he whines again.

“Steve.”

“Fine.”

So they wait for several minutes until a man with a pouch collects their tickets. Boys with windblown hair and sick-faced girls stumble through the exit to their left, and suddenly Steve doesn’t feel so fine. But another man with a mustache instead of a pouch grabs his arm and forces him roughly into a seat right next to Bucky.

“Bucky, I’ll fly right out,” he says.

“I’ll hold you down.”

Steve raps his knuckles against the cool metal bar in front of them, in front of Bucky’s waist but more his own chest. How many hot dogs has he eaten today? How much cotton candy?

Okay, he just wants to get this over with. Now, but they’re taking forever, the two men. Loading girls and boys and kids- kids? Steve feels sick and, worse, weak. He lets out a breath, a deep one, and blows his cheeks out in doing so.

“Hey, hey,” Bucky says lightly, clasping a hand around his shoulder. In his right mind, contact with Bucky would be something that Steve would savor, every moment and touch and feel of it. But right now he just feels claustrophobic, and he shies away from it, shoving his hand away.

“Oh, man, here we go!” Bucky hisses, rubbing his hands together.

“Oh, man.”

It’s slow at first, rocking slowly and surely upwards, and it’s rickety and creaky. He’s holding his breath, holding and holding and holding it- and there they are, at the top, about to let go.

One, two-

Suddenly, they’re sent rocketing downwards, and Steve loses it all. The popcorn, the hot dogs, the cotton candy, it’s all one big mess of carnival barf, and it’s pooling in his lap and dribbling down his chin and flying in his face, thanks to the laws of physics.

“Oh, hell!” Bucky cries. “Damn it, Steve.” With his eyes closed he searches frantically for Steve’s hand with his own, then holds it. Cradles it. Strong, his grip is strong. Firm. “It’s okay.”

Steve grimaces. “Go to hell.”

But he grips Bucky’s hand with the strength that he has, and after a few moments of ups and downs and upside downs he lets out a little laugh.

They roll up alongside the man with the mustache, and Steve gives him an apologetic look. Then he turns to Bucky, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and shrugs. “This was almost my favorite birthday,” he offers with a breathy laugh.

And Bucky bursts out laughing. His head and his shoulders shake and he pushes Steve out off of the ride towards the bathrooms. “Let’s get you cleaned up, buddy.”

“Oh, man!” One guy complains as he exits and they enter the men’s room. His nose twists. “What did you eat?”

“Shove it, grandpa.”

“Bucky.”

“Sorry.”

Steve ends up on top of the counter after swishing and spitting water while Bucky wipes aimlessly at his face with a wet towel, and his eyes linger elsewhere, on the polished brown shoes underneath the second stall, on the lopsided stack of paper towels next to him. On the dozens of telephone numbers and illustrated male genitalia scrawled across the stall doors.

“Bucky,” he says.

“Hm.”

“Thanks.”

“Thanks for being my best pal.” He smiles up at him and slaps him on the thigh, signalling that Steve’s all clean. “Now come on, let’s get home. Your birthday’s not over yet, and if I remember correctly you’ve got a bottle of scotch just waiting to be opened.”

“Your memory’s just fine,” Steve grins and hops down. “Oh,” he cries, losing his balance.

“Careful there.”

“I don’t know,” Steve tries, grip firm on the countertop. “I don’t know whether I can walk. You know, just, losing all the food-”

“I got ya,” Bucky waves him off, offering his shoulder for him to grab onto.

They stumble out into the fairgrounds and find their way down an alley, a shortcut. Steve’s quieting his gasping, asthma kicking in. But Bucky hears it, of course Bucky hears it.

“Here, let go.”

“What?”

“Just let go.”

So he does, and Bucky drops to his knees, presenting his back to Steve.

“Go ahead, get on,” he prompts him.

“Bucky-”

“Steve, you can’t breathe.”

He considers his options. He could stumble the rest of the way home, fighting for breath on an empty stomach, or he could let his best friend carry him, front to back, and risk the impulse of sniffing his hair too loudly, or something.

“I don’t…”

“If you don’t get on me right now I’m going to turn around and I’m going to carry you home bridal style.”

That does it. He complies with shaking legs, gripping Bucky’s neck with his lanky arms and carefully maneuvering his crotch away from his best friend’s back so that his butt is sorely sticking out. They’re in an alley, anyway.

“Steve, I said get on.”

“Ha ha,” he jabs his side. “Funny. I’m weightless. I know. Just go.”

They make it home within twenty minutes and Bucky’s dropping Steve off on the couch before he turns for the kitchen.

“Shut up, I’m making you rice and beans.”

“Break the scotch out while you’re at it.”

“On it.”

 

 


End file.
